Fight - Nicole Dykes
5 years old
Oh no. I got my shoes dirty. Mommy is going to be so mad at me.
No. No. No.
“Ew! You’re dirty!” I look up at the three boys surrounding me out on the playground. They aren’t in my kindergarten class. They might be a little older. They are definitely bigger.
“I’m not dirty,” I whine, but look at the purple tennis shoes I got for Christmas. My mommy told me to take care of them. That Santa worked hard for these shoes.
They’re my favorite color. Purple. Now they are covered in mud because I stepped in a mud puddle running to the swings.
I love the swings.
“Yeah huh! You’re dirty!” The boy taunts and I ball my fists at my sides.
“Go away!” I shout. I won’t cry, but I’m angry.
“Dirty girl! Dirty girl!” The boys chant.
Suddenly one of them is shoved and I look over at the boy who did it. He’s in my class.
Carter.
We haven’t talked except he let me use his glue stick yesterday in class. “Get away from her,” Carter growls.
Carter is wearing a worn, red jacket, tattered and dirty, his little fists held up. Is he going to hit these boys?
I hope so.
I just want them all to go away.
He shoves the biggest kid again. “Go. Away.” The boys just shrug and walk away mumbling something under their breaths. Carter shifts his focus to me. “Are you okay?”
I look at his face and offer a small smile. “I’m fine. They made me mad.”
He nods, “Jerks.”
That makes me giggle, but then I look down at my shoes again. Mommy is going to be so mad.
He wraps an arm around my shoulder. “They won’t mess with you anymore. Not when you are my friend.”
I look at him like he’s crazy, but it’s nice to have a friend. “Okay.” And then for whatever reason I lean in and kiss his cold cheek. He flinches and then it’s his turn to think I’m crazy. “Friends. I like it.”
“Come on. Let’s go swing.”
I follow him to the swings, flying high and forgetting about my shoes for a moment, laughing and screaming as my legs kick, and Carter goes even higher than I do.
He’s brave, my new friend.
18 years old
“Come the fuck on, Shaw.” I honk my horn again waiting in my beat up ‘88 Honda Accord with the heat on and just barely warm.
“She’s probably doing her makeup, man. Gettin’ all slutty and shit.” I groan looking in the backseat where Dane’s big ass is slouched, his arm resting against the seat, totally unbothered.
“She’s not slutty.”
He laughs at that. “If she was, do you think I would give a fuck?”
I look out the side window that is fogged over. It’s November in Kansas City. It’s cold as shit and Shaw is taking her sweet time. “I know you wouldn’t.”
We don’t follow rules. We don’t give a flying fuck what society says we should do or shouldn’t do. I lost my virginity when I was fourteen in a back alley. Dane was thirteen. We’re street kids. Hustling, busy trying to keep the lights on, trying to keep food in our bellies. Who the fuck has time for rules?
And who has time to worry about being slutty or not?
Having sex at a young age is the least of our worries. And Shaw, Dane and me, we don’t judge. You steal, lie, cheat, fuck--whether you like the same sex, older than you--we couldn’t care less.
We really only have one rule-- don’t mess with either of the other two.
“But if someone outside of this car said Shaw was lookin’ slutty?” I ask, my voice amused already knowing the answer.
“I’d hang them up by their balls.”
My eyebrow shoots up as I look back at him. “And if it was a chick?”
He doesn’t miss a beat. “Her tits. Whatever.”
I laugh. It’s been this way since day one on the playground when those assholes were giving Shaw shit about dirt on her shoes. Fuck those assholes. I handled them and when we met Dane the next year, we handled anyone that ever dared to mess with Shaw.
Not that she really needs our protection. Shaw can hold her own. I flex my fingers that are starting to turn blue. You shouldn’t be able to see your breath inside your running car, but it’s the best I can afford from odd jobs right now.
Finally, I see Shaw at her front door, pulling it closed and locking it. She has her long black hair pulled up into a messy bun on top of